


Big Dish Guy

by whizzy



Series: Black Helicopters [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzy/pseuds/whizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," the lumberjack said, taking the seat opposite Rodney in the booth without even asking first, "I've heard about you. You're the new guy in town, right? The one with the big dish."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Dish Guy

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of mini-prequel to Black Helicopters at Dawn.

"So," the lumberjack said, taking the seat opposite Rodney in the booth without even _asking_ first, "I've heard about you.  You're the new guy in town, right?  The one with the big dish."

Rodney sputtered, trying to decide which indignation to apply his outrage to first.  It was difficult to prioritize while choking.  "_Excuse me_, but-  Oh.  You said _dish_.  Well, then... you must be referring to the... extremely large satellite dish mounted on the roof of my house.  Which I suppose would make me the man with the... the big dish."  He could feel the flush rising in his cheeks. 

A delicate scientist's complexion was the bane of Dr Rodney McKay's social life.

Lumberjack man's demeanor remained cheerfully oblivious, a feat Rodney judged to be well outside the scope of his acting abilities.  "We didn't think anyone would ever buy the old cable TV place.  It was empty for a long time.  What are you going to do with it?  Make your own TV station?" 

Yup, it was a case of genuine stupidity all right.

"No," Rodney snapped; and because placating stupidity was one of his least favorite past-times, he gave the most crudely condensed explanation he had in his arsenal.  "I'm going to hunt aliens."

"Oh," Lumberjack said.  And, following a considerable pause, "Okay..."

"I'll be right back," Rodney lied, squirming out of the booth.

It was a small town.  Like, microcosm small.  Still, Rodney was surprised to recognize a couple faces when he scanned the bar.  He chose the one least likely to impart bad advice, and headed across the room to perch next to his mailman at the bar proper.

Huh.  Did everyone in northern Canada come with an occupational title instead of a real name?  What did that make Rodney, now that he was living here?  Doctor?  Cranky Science Man?  Big Dish Guy?

"Dr McKay," the mailman greeted.  He shifted his elbow to make room.  "I see you finally discovered the local watering hole."

Rodney cheated; the guy was still in uniform, name tag and all.  "Well Bob, how could I possibly stay away after you gave the place such a glowing review?  'Beer's cold, food won't kill you, and it's the only place in town open after eight.'  Did I forget anything?"

"The company."  Bob looked back over his shoulder at Rodney's booth.

Lumberjack was still there, and beckoned despite Rodney avoiding direct eye contact.  Come to think, he probably wasn't a lumberjack.  Long hair like that would get caught in machinery.  And the way it fell in his eyes, he couldn't see well enough to safely wield anything scarier than a butter knife, let alone a huge axe.  He was more like a sheepdog with a lumberjack's physique.  Rodney didn't know how else to describe it.  Granted, he'd never met a lumberjack in real life, but he'd seen pictures...

"How long do you think he'll sit there before he comes over and tries to retrieve me?" Rodney whispered.  Would lumberjack try to herd Rodney, or just pick him up by the scruff of neck and drag him?  Could Rodney outrun him if he bolted for the door?

"Who, Steve?"  Bob chuckled.  "He's harmless.  Unless you say the wrong thing about the gay thing."

Rodney hissed, "What?!"  Because "the wrong thing about the gay thing" was _so_ helpful, and anyway, how did they _know_?

Bob glanced over his shoulder again with something approaching pride.  "The last guy who made an issue about Steve's preferences walked away with a bloody nose and two less teeth than he had when he started." 

"You mean _Steve_ is-  Hm."  And people here didn't have a problem with that?  Or, Rodney guessed, if they did, they sure as hell kept their mouths shut.  Maybe he was going to like this town after all.  "Thanks for the warning.  I'll, um, I'll be careful."

"Oh, and if he bothers you, you let him know.  Like I said, Steve's a good guy, but sometimes you've gotta be blunt to get his attention." 

"You think that he... and me...?"

"Nah."  Bob looked Rodney once over slowly, and the insinuation was clear: Rodney wasn't close to Steve's physical equal.   "You're new.  He's just curious.  Everyone is.  Maybe now that you've finally come to the bar people will stop gossiping about you."

Rodney was busy looking down at his front.  So what if he didn't have a neck like a tree trunk?  He wasn't built like a toothpick either, and he was currently sitting on what was undeniably his best asset.  "Gossip?  Oh hell, about what?"

"What you do for a living, and what plans you have for that old TV station.  That kind of thing."

"Those are one and the same, my friend.  One and the sa...aah!"  Rodney jumped as something brushed his ass.  He spun, sliding off his bar stool, and found himself face to sternum with a grinning Steve. 

"Hey Bob," Steve said.

"Steve," Bob replied.  "Come to retrieve Dr McKay?"

"He just-  I wasn't-"  Rodney squeaked.

Steve shook his shaggy head in the approximation of a nod, and looked at Rodney slyly.  "I want him to tell me all about hunting aliens."

Now it was Bob's turn to almost choke on his drink.  "Hunting aliens?"  He said it loud enough to draw the attention of four or five other patrons in the vicinity.

"Bartender!" Rodney called.  "Two beers, whatever's on tap, I trust it's nothing disgusting, that booth there," he jerked his chin.  Then he ducked around Steve, snagged the sleeve of his stupid plaid shirt, and dragged him back across the room.  "I'll tell you anything you want to know, just please, _please_ promise me you'll never repeat that phrase ever again.  Promise!"

"Okay," Steve rumbled.  He sat in the booth obediently when Rodney pointed, then waited for Rodney to settle in too.  "So, um, those aliens.  What are you going to do with it if you catch one?"

Rodney was fairly certain he only whimpered on the inside.

  


* * *

Rodney learned a few things that night.

Steve was a bush pilot.  Bob knew him because he flew mail runs for the post office.  He also made supply runs for the crazy bastards who chose to live in even more remote and inaccessible areas of northwestern Canada. 

Rodney also learned that the shotgun his neighbors had presented him as a housewarming gift was not an initiate-the-outsider prank.  No, apparently Rodney was supposed to use it on the savage wild animals that lived in the forest but might one day decide they'd rather live in Rodney's house.

One thing he didn't learn was how Steve could see to fly through all that hair.

Steve learned that Rodney liked big words.  (No joke, he said it exactly like that.)  If he'd possessed a graduate degree in engineering, he might have been able to follow half of what Rodney explained regarding his plans to convert the satellite dish into a sophisticated radio telescope capable of detecting deep space signals of possible extraterrestrial origin.  Instead, he learned what a radio telescope was, and what extraterrestrial meant. 

He never did find out what Rodney planned to do with an alien if he caught one.


End file.
